The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. I'm about to ring for supper. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. ” She fumbled with her keys and opened the front door. ” 209 Clotilde was no fool.
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